


Body Bag

by MeltyRum



Category: Devilman (Anime & Manga), 僕のヒーローアカデミア | Boku no Hero Academia | My Hero Academia
Genre: Gen, Presumed Dead
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-07
Updated: 2020-01-07
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:48:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22155802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MeltyRum/pseuds/MeltyRum
Summary: Makimura Miki is dead, but what if she was born in the "My Hero Academia" universe and also possessed a powerful quirk?
Relationships: Fudo Akira/Makimura Miki
Comments: 2
Kudos: 8
Collections: Boku no Hero Academia x Persona





	Body Bag

When she woke up, she saw nothing. And somehow, some way, she knew this wasn’t the first time. The air was sharp and cold and felt thin in her lungs; the frigidity of it bit at her skin, which was how she realized that she currently had no clothing to speak of. It was a dangerous cold, she instinctively knew—or at least, her _body_ knew, with the sort of knowledge that only materializes from experience—understanding that she wasn’t going to be able to survive in this place much longer.

She kept her eyes open, straining them uselessly to try and get them to adjust to the darkness, while also feeling as though she had been in this situation before. It wasn’t going to work, her body urged her, as her heart beat slowly and strongly, causing her fingertips and temples to throb. After taking a deep, unsatisfying breath of the oxygen-deficient air, she tried to hold it and take stock of her condition.

Other than the cold and the dark, she found that she was lying on her back on a surface flatter and harder and colder than any she had felt—expect, no, wait… was that true? Had she not felt it before? But it was so familiar, even though she…

Shaking her head, she refocused her thoughts on the now. Wherever she was, it was barely wide enough to fit the breadth of her shoulders, so that she had barely any wiggle room on either side; she guessed that she had about the same amount of space directly above her, as she could only move her arms up a few inches, it seemed, before they found the ceiling. A long, rectangular space, then. And such a small one, at that, which just happened to fit the size of her body…

Most puzzling, though, was the material she’d been encased in. It was closer to the size of her body than the size of the coffin-like space she’d been stuffed into, and its touch was just as cold as the air around her. The texture of it was smooth, but not at all comfortable or inviting. Plastic. A soft plastic which gave way at her touch, allowing her to feel around at the sack which surrounded her. When she brought her mouth to the material to try and inhale some air through it, she got nothing but the taste of tarpaulin. For some reason, the flavor was familiar.

She was, however, surprised to find a blemish in the smooth texture of the plasticimprisoning her, feeling something like a gentle scrape on her lips. She tried to follow it a ways, using her mouth and tongue, realizing there was something long and firm running the length of her head.

No, not just her head. Using a finger, she traced a lengthy, narrow, solidly straight line all along the top, her fingers losing track of it at her thighs, but she was able to deduce that it extended all the way to her feet when she searched for it with her toes, at the bottom of her enclosure. It went the entirety of her body, then; she learned more by pressing some of this anomalous, thin, firm material to the ceiling, and her hands rapidly worked out a very familiar pattern along the line itself.

A zipper, she realized. Her plastic enclosure had been lined with a zipper.

She shuddered as realization dawned on her; why would she have ended up here, inside _this_?

 _Because she had been killed_ , came the answer. It came from within herself. From her stomach or her heart or some other part of her that had been waiting for her to catch up and reach some level of understanding for her situation.

But who killed me? she wondered.

 _You know who_ , she reminded herself.

Yes. That was true. She _knew_. She _felt_ it down to her fingers, her toes, her hair, her bones. Death was something she could still taste, rotten and fleshy and cold. He had put so much of her in her own mouth. So much of _himself_ , too. What terrible flavors they had been.

But if that was true, why couldn’t she remember? The details? The events? Her memories of the taste were so vile that she almost choked, but that was all there was—a sensation. Nothing remained in her mind which could tell her who had done this to her; she could not remember his face—at least, not in such a context—but her hairs rose sharply and her spine felt icy when she thought of the man she suspected most, as if her body was trying to confirm her suspicions.

And how was her body wholly present, when it felt like pieces should be missing?

Reflect later, she thought. Reluctantly, she let out a shaky breath and inhaled another, but her limbs felt heavy and her headhad begun to pound painfully. At this rate, she would suffocate.

If the bag was what she suspected, then she was inside a… morgue locker, probably; it had to be that—or something very much like it. But her body was spotless, as far as she could tell, and rubbing her limbs together told her that she had no bracelet or toe tag or anything which might have been placed upon her body to identify her. Does that mean someone had taken her and placed her here?

Her gut told her this wasn’t the case. She believed it. Somehow—again, mysteriously, instinctively—she knew that she wasn’t meant to wake up here. She was presumed dead. Every limb and nerve and hair on her body _knew_.

Grasping for a way out, she reached her hands up to search the upper end of the bag, realizing with some taps that the tab of the zipper was on the exterior. Of course it was. What’s more, her fingers pinched uselessly on the cold when she tried to gain a hold on the tab from the inside, hoping she might be able to fold the plastic around the zipper and free herself if the grip was strong enough—but to no avail.Trying not to get discouraged, she slid her body up inside of her plastic prison, until she might be able to angle her head back and feel the zipper with her mouth and teeth.

But she noticed something wrong as she bit down on the plastic. Abrasions, which she inspected both with her lips and her fingers, trying to discern what might have put them there, until the familiarity of it made a sinister dread begin to bubble up inside her abdomen. Her fingertips traced scratch and scrape marks, evidence that _something_ had already tried to escape.

Marks made by fingernails and teeth. She knew that her teeth had been here before, biting at the zipper. But why didn’t she remember…?

What _did_ she remember?

It was as though she could feel what happened to her, but she also knew that those feelings must be false, because she was _here_ and _breathing_ , albeit with considerable difficulty. Where did she come from? She tried to find her most recent memory, but all there was was… school? Track practice? And Akira-kun… where was he now? Was he in the same situation as she was, trapped elsewhere?

It could not be. Akira was strong—there was no way he could be confined like this. What’s more, despite _everything_ , despite what happened to _her_ , she could not imagine that Ryo would do such a thing…

But Ryo. Had he really hurt her? Her head pained her. She couldn’t remember at all—not an instant, not an image or a shred of memory to fill her in. But he’d killed her. Or at least, it _felt_ like he had killed her. However, she was clearly alive, here… was clinging as hard as she could, trying to escape. Was she mistaken, then? Was Ryo innocent?

Her body rebelled at the idea. It had to be him, even if she couldn’t explain it; the thought made her sick and doubtful and frightened, as though she were going crazy—as though her mind was trapped with knowledge it shouldn’t— _couldn’t—_ have. Not when her last memory was just another school day, with her parents and brother and Akira in the morning and her friends at school and track club and then karaoke with friends—or was that a different day? Either way, her memories contained nothing outside of the ordinary.

How did she get here, then? Her head continued to pound, and she returned her attention to the plastic, feeling swallowed up and dizzy and sick.

When Miki woke up, she saw nothing. Despite that, the dark space seemed so familiar—almost calming, in spite of her strong suspicion that she was a prisoner here. Her confines were cramped, like a long, narrow coffin which had been made just for her to lie in. Well—not _just_ for her. After doing some searching with her hands and feet, she found she had quite a bit of space in every direction, so the bag could no doubt accommodate someone larger than her—but not by that much.

Something that stood out to her was when her fingers passed over her belly. She had realized quickly that she was completely nude, but Miki was surprised to note that her belly was a bit… _softer_ than she expected it to be. She spent so much time working hard with the rest of the track team that she was used to being a bit firmer, overall. Some of the musculature was still there, but less pronounced than before.

Why would that be? she wondered. Had Miki been stuck here for a long time? Somehow, she knew the answer was _yes_ , but couldn’t explain it. In fact, she couldn’t remember much at all outside of some peaceful days at school. So how did she get here, then? Was it some sort of drug? Or maybe someone’s quirk? They both felt wrong; when she asked herself the questions of _how_ , Ryo’s face surfaced in her mind—it frightened her, just a little. She clenched a fist, a tingle of surprise running through her bones, as if that hand shouldn’t be there anymore.

Would she ever see Akira again? Enjoy breakfast with him and the rest of her family? The dread started to make her chest feel tight, and she tried to refocus her thoughts onto her situation. She gripped the sack which enveloped her body, which she reasoned had to be a body bag of some kind (she felt as though she had realized this before _really_ realizing it). Between the way her movement made noisy metallic thuds—not to mention the frigid temperatures of her prison—she guessed that she must have ended up inside some kind of morgue locker. A mistake, maybe? But how would that happen? If she had been declared dead, wouldn’t there have to be some sort of autopsy? She felt no blemishes on her skin, however… no toe tag or bracelet to speak of. If this whole thing was some sort of mistake, it was a distinctly unusual one.

It was clear that the bag she had been wrapped in non-porous and its zipper airtight. That made sense. If you were transporting a corpse, you wouldn’t want any of the rot to escape the container. It worried Miki, though; if she ran out of air, what was going to happen to her? For that matter, how was their enough air in here for her to awaken to?

Answers could come later, she decided, and she took as deep a breath as she could, finding the air painfully thin but trying to hold it all into her lungs for as long as she was able.

As Miki fished around the insides of the plastic with her face, hands, and feet, she came across disturbing evidence of wear along the interior: scrapes, scratches, and even places where the material felt like it had been stretched out a bit. She decided to focus on the zipper, hoping there might be more fresh air outside of the bag.

It took some fiddling—her lack of sight was no help at all—but Miki managed to get a weak grip on the tab of the zipper (which resided on the exterior of her plastic cage) by pinching her fingers around it and taking hold of it through the plastic. With her other hand, she tried to press a forefinger to where she thought the zipper _must_ close up. These efforts gave Miki a strange sense of déjà

vu. If she could just pull it down with one hand while pushing the tab along with the other, she just might…

When the zipper finally budged, she exhaled involuntarily with relief and satisfaction, pulling the tab down until it was at her thighs. She took a triumphant breath as soon as she could poke her head out of the bag: the air was cold and sharp… and unfortunately just as suffocating as the air she had sampled from within the body bag. Miki tried not to let the panic or frustration guide her body—though at this point, with her head aching and her limbs obeying her only very sluggishly, perhaps she was operating only on instinct.

There was still no light by which she could see, but leaving the bag was one step complete, at least. The matter of escaping the locker didn’t seem like it would be any simpler, however. After working her legs out of the bag (a laborious procedure, considering her claustrophobic confines), she chose to hit the panel at her feet, driving her soles into it as hard as she could. The cold metal did not yield. She tried using her hands, then, pressing them hard on the panel above her head. No… there was no chance she would ever get anything heavy to move, in her state.

She struck each side again, the metallic echoes reverberating painfully in her ears, causing the blood in her face to throb (such a familiar feeling, she thought). The panels didn’t move an inch.

Of course it would be locked. People don’t escape from places like this. Miki hugged her arms to herself, more for warmth than modesty, closing her eyes and trying not to let the despair overtake her.

Noise, she thought. It would take energy, but noise might be the answer. If it wasn’t Ryo that held her, then enough of a disturbance might alert… _someone_ to let her out. She decided to get started by slamming her fists in the walls beside her head, at the same time thrusting her feet into the bottom of her coffin, hoping one of these would be the door—if this was, indeed, a morgue locker; she wasn’t sure if she had been loaded inside head-first or otherwise. The process was difficult, given the size of her confines; it was a challenge to generate momentum for strong, loud strikes. But it would have to do, Miki thought.

“Help!” she cried. “I’m alive in here!” She was surprised at the volume her voice made, echoing in this tiny metallic chamber. The effort of shouting—of spending her precious air—made her head feel heavy. If she was ever rescued, she hoped her limbs would not ache so much.

When Miki woke up again, it was dark—she couldn’t make out anything. She lay upon a bed of plastic and felt the cold metallic confines surrounding her, and could not for the life of her remember how she got there.

But her gut told her to panic—told her to make noise.

The next time she woke up, her eyes stung from the light.


End file.
